


Of Crowns, Swords, and Vows

by AgentJoanneMills



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F, Raelle Collar-centric, Reckless Gay Bean and Death Gay Bean, Second Chapter: Scylla Ramshorn-centric, they are very soft and very in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: Raelle always says she became the Queen’s personal guard when she was 21, formally instated into the Royal Armed Forces and ready for anything and everything that entails. It’s the official story, anyways.But the truth is this:Raelle has been the Queen’s since she was eight. She remembers the girl with the sad blue eyes walking up the gilded throne, with a crown much too big and heavy for a nine-year-old laid upon her head.Alternatively:in which Raelle Collar willingly gives up everything, every day, for her one and only queen.or, the queen x bodyguard au
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 35
Kudos: 540





	1. Of Crowns, Swords, and Vows

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Merely a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.  
> ****“i’m a princess and you’re my bodyguard and we’re so not supposed to bang but we kind of did anyways” au except the princess is a queen and they don’t really bang here. it’s more like, bang-adjacent, except the “bang” part is more feelings than actual banging. idek.

Raelle always says she became the Queen’s personal guard when she was 21, formally instated into the Royal Armed Forces and ready for anything and everything that entails. It’s the official story, anyway, and it is _technically_ true. Raelle is the youngest graduate of the Royal Military Academy, getting the highest marks since it was established to serve the Kingdom of Salem. It is no surprise that she rises through the ranks quickly, ending up in the Queen’s service as the captain of her guards and practically her right-hand woman.

It is a post Raelle takes pride in, a post she treasures. The whole of Salem knows she’s dedicated and fully committed to their monarch’s safety. They all know that should it need be, Raelle would give up her life for the Queen. It’s not even a choice.

It’s a fact, plain and simple.

But the _whole_ , literal truth is this:

Raelle has been the Queen’s since she was eight. She remembers the girl with the sad blue eyes walking up the gilded throne, with a crown much too big and heavy for a nine-year-old laid upon her head.

She remembers thinking:

_She’s so sad._

She remembers thinking:

_I want to make her smile._

She remembers thinking:

_This is my Queen._

(That’s a bit too intense for a child, though Raelle didn’t mind. She didn’t have the word for the spark that came alive in her ribs when the young Queen first addressed her kingdom, with the majesty of her bloodline and the legacy of her ancestors pumping through her veins.

The Queen was a child, an orphan. Small, delicate, gentle. But she was the Queen, and even Raelle could see it, could feel it. Could almost touch it—her power in the air, electric and real.

She was the Queen, and Raelle didn’t have the word for the feeling that erupted from her bones and spread through her skin, the feeling that made her want to kneel and _serve_.

She didn’t have the word, then.

She does now. But that’s another matter altogether.)

****

Raelle has always felt too much, people around her say. She thinks it probably started that day, on the Queen’s coronation, when she unwittingly pledged herself to the Queen’s protection.

The Queen refused to cry before the crowd, but Raelle had seen the grief lurking wild in her eyes. Still, she didn’t waver, head held high despite the weight of the mantle on her too-small shoulders and the Sovereign’s Orb and Scepter in her too-small hands. She’s the Queen, after all, and there’s no place for weakness in the midst of a tragedy.

The Queen remained stalwart, a statue of royal indifference.

But when it’s over, when the palace had been locked down and the staff had gone to their quarters—

—Raelle witnessed the Queen fall.

****

(No royal biographer would know this, but Raelle _knows_ , and she’s sure her Queen _remembers_.)

Raelle had ventured into the throne room on a whim. She didn’t encounter any resistance at all.

(Only years later does she think anything weird about that. She thinks to ask her father, but she knows she’ll just get vague answers.)

Her feet were silent on the marble floors, and it was dark but for the flickering lights of the chandelier. She heard a snuffle, repressed, and she walked towards the sound only to discover the Queen on her hands and knees, crying in front of the throne, her cloak spread out behind her like crimson wings. Fat tears dripped down porcelain cheeks, and the Queen was biting her lips too hard to keep herself from sobbing outright. Raelle was afraid she’d be drawing blood soon enough.

The Queen’s sadness was too raw and deep and boundless, contained in much too young a body that it’s almost bursting at the seams. It was painful just looking at her, and Raelle was at a loss, for how do you comfort a weeping monarch?

So she had done the next best thing:

She knelt right next to the Queen and started crying too.

The Queen was startled right out of her agony, head turning to Raelle, and there’s confusion in her eyes.

 _Good_ , Raelle thought, _confusion would leave no room for tears_.

“W-What are you doing?” the Queen asked.

“Crying,” Raelle replied, “for you.”

The Queen sniffed, tried to hide it despite it being quite too late. “Why would you do that?”

“Because,” Raelle said, wiping her snot with her blue sleeve, “you’re my Queen.”

The Queen stared in silence, and Raelle stared back. Raelle’s chest felt too tight, and her tears continued to fall long after the Queen’s had ceased. They just stayed there by the throne, looking at each other, silent but for Raelle’s sniffles.

Finally, the Queen shook her head, and Raelle watched as she rose to her feet. She was still holding her scepter. Raelle thought she’s majestic, despite her size.

“Stop crying,” the Queen said.

Raelle didn’t, because the Queen still looked sad.

“Stop crying,” the Queen repeated, tone stronger now. “That’s an order.”

Raelle’s eyes processed the command before her mind did. The tears stopped. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said. The words should feel clunky from the mouth of a child, but all Raelle could feel was a sense of _rightness_.

Perhaps the Queen felt that too, for she nodded in approval, and Raelle felt like she could float when she smiled. “Good.” She made to walk away, but seemed to think better of it. Instead she looked down at her clothes as if looking for something, then with a tiny _ha!_ removed a brooch from her dress.

She handed it to Raelle, who took it with awe. The brooch was of a bird with its wings outstretched; it was made of silver and studded with blue gems, the same shade as the Queen’s eyes. It felt heavy on Raelle’s hands.

“Wear that,” the Queen said, “and you shall be my sword and shield.”

Raelle didn’t have to think twice.

****

“Raelle, that’s part of the crown jewels, you must return it to the Queen,” Willa implored, but Raelle wouldn’t budge.

“The Queen gave it to me,” she said. “And I am her sword and shield.” She crossed her arms, petulant, scowling at her mother. This brooch was _hers_. She’d die first before she let anyone take it from her, and she tried her best to express that with her glare.

Her father huffed a laugh, and he immediately raised his hands when Willa frowned at him. “Sorry,” Edwin said, though Raelle thought he didn’t sound sorry at all, “it’s just that, well, she certainly didn’t get that stubbornness from me.”

Willa didn’t look amused. “We’re going to talk to Lady Izadora and try to sort this out,” she decided.

Raelle’s frown deepened, but she didn’t say a word. She smiled a little when her father winked at her, though.

****

“I gave it to her,” the Queen told them, though her eyes were on Raelle. She was there when Raelle’s family dropped by Lady Izadora’s solar.

Willa winced. “We couldn’t possibly accept it, Your Grace,” she said. “It belongs to the Crown.”

“I _am_ the Crown,” the Queen pointed out. “It _is_ mine to give.”

“It is, Your Grace.” Willa hesitated. “Still, it is too much.”

“I didn’t give it to you.” The Queen’s voice was soft, but it held a clear warning. Like thunder in a summer day. She’s finally looking at Willa. “I gave it to _Raelle_.”

Raelle never thought her name could sound like that, and she wanted to do something about it—cry again, perhaps—but her mother had other priorities and tried again. “Your Grace, with due resp—”

“I am not taking it back. It is _hers_ ,” the Queen declared, cutting Raelle’s mother off. “Unless you’re questioning my decision?”

Willa stilled. She looked at the Queen with an expression Raelle couldn’t read. The Queen was unperturbed. “No, Your Grace,” she said at last. “Thank you for your generosity.” She bowed, and she gestured for Raelle to do the same.

Raelle, however, knelt. “Thank you for your generosity,” she echoed, “Your Grace.” Her fist was clenched on her chest, and her eyes were fixed on the Queen’s. There was a flutter, right in Raelle’s stomach, when the Queen laughed. It was the sweetest thing Raelle had ever heard. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to hear it every day. 

“You’re welcome, Raelle,” she said, and there’s the name again.

Raelle smiled back, and the world swirled right beneath her feet.

****

“Her fate has been sealed, Edwin,” Raelle heard her mother say. “Did we do the right thing, bringing her here?”

Edwin hummed. Raelle imagined him leaning back in his big chair, a thoughtful frown on his face. “I think,” he began, “that Raelle is the sun.” He sighed, this weary sound that’s soft around the edges but just as sure. “And if anyone in the world needed her light the most, it is the Queen.”

****

The next morning, Raelle kissed him on the cheek, promising, “I will be the brightest.”

Edwin blinked, before smiling down at her. He ruffled her hair. “And so you will,” he said.

****

Lady Izadora has managed the Queen’s household since long before she was crowned. Raelle has always thought of her as the Queen’s guardian.

“You’re not wrong,” Edwin said, when Raelle brought it up. “She’s the Queen’s first line of defense, in a way. No one gets close enough unless Lady Izadora approves.”

“Someday,” Raelle said, “I will get her approval.”

Edwin laughed, and laughed louder at Raelle’s look of offense.

****

(Years down the line, Edwin will say: _You never needed her approval, Raelle. Not when you have the Queen’s herself._

Raelle will say: _It’s the principle of the thing, Dad._

The Queen will laugh and whisper to her ear: _Sure, it’s the_ principle _._

And Raelle will blush, stammer, _Your Grace_ , but smile when the Queen takes her hand.)

****

Willa was appointed as the Queen’s tutor in the sciences, and she insisted that Raelle also be there for her lessons.

“Raelle took these lessons three years ago, Your Grace,” Willa said.

The Queen eyed Raelle thoughtfully. “Well,” she then said, “get me up to speed so we may be on the same level, as soon as possible.”

Willa smiled. “As Your Grace commands.”

****

Raelle knew she’s smart, but the Queen was on another level. She’s a genius, Edwin said, and Willa murmured in agreement. It didn’t take long for the Queen to catch up to Raelle, and soon enough it was Raelle who had to play catch up. The Queen also had other tutors, in a vast array of subjects, most of which didn’t hold Raelle’s interest the way they did the Queen’s. 

Then came a time when Raelle had to walk a different path. She’s a year behind the Queen, and she had a lot to make up for.

“I am your sword and shield,” Raelle said. “I have to make sure I am worthy of that.”

“You’re already worthy,” the Queen said. “But I get your point. Well then, Raelle.” Her lips quirked up in a small smile. “Make me proud.”

And Raelle went to do just that.

****

Raelle trains with General Anacostia of the Royal Navy every day for five years, and then she’s sent to the academy to hone her skills. She does 30 pull-ups upon waking up and before sleeping. She runs laps whilst reciting the Constitution under her breath. She practises shooting both with firearms and traditional weapons, like bows and arrows. She takes up sword fighting and rides alongside her Queen.

_Sharpen the blade,_ Raelle tells herself, _you’re her sword._

_Toughen up,_ Raelle tells herself, _you’re her shield._

Raelle will polish herself to perfection, to be the sword and the shield her Queen deserves.

****

_A memory:_

_Raelle is fifteen, the Queen is sixteen. They are in the Queen’s study, drinking tea. The Queen reaches for a scone, but Raelle stops her._

_“No one tested it yet,” she says. She picks one and takes a bite._

_Nothing happens._

_And then everything does._

**__ **

_When Raelle comes to, the first thing she sees is the Queen’s face, streaked with tears. (If it weren’t an extended metaphor for Raelle’s fate, she doesn’t know what is.)_

_“You can’t die,” the Queen says. Her voice is shaky though her gaze is firm, meeting Raelle’s. “I forbid it.”_

_She swallows past the cotton in her throat. “I wouldn’t dare defy you, Your Grace.” Her voice is raspy, but her Queen’s eyes brighten, so she knows she hears every word clearly:_ I am willing to die for you. Living for you is easy enough too.

_“Good.” The Queen takes her hand. Her touch sets Raelle aflame. “You’re mine to keep.”_

_Raelle nods._

_Thinks too,_ And you’re mine to protect.

****

“I’m proud of you,” her father said.

Her mother didn’t speak, but when Raelle woke up the next morning, she found a signet ring on her desk.

It was her mother’s, and her mother’s before her.

Raelle closed her eyes, gripped the ring tight.

When she opened them, she slipped the ring on, and it never left her hand since then.

****

Neutralising threats against Her Grace becomes easier, after that.

It is Raelle’s job.

But more than that, it is her pleasure.

No one will harm her Queen.

No one will get even close enough to contemplate it.

She will make sure of it.

****

Raelle has always thought of herself as the Queen’s.

It’s not because she has no sense of self, though. It’s just— It’s a fact of life. The sun is a ball of gas. The earth revolves around the sun. Raelle is a soldier. She belongs to the Queen.

These are indisputable facts.

****

“You know I don’t actually own people, right?” the Queen says.

Raelle shrugs. “I’m not people.”

The Queen stares at her, and then she laughs her real laugh—the laugh that comes right from her lungs and with happiness spilling in the blues of her eyes. “No, you are not,” the Queen agrees. “You are mine.”

“Yes.” Raelle’s heart feels like a grenade ready to explode. “I am.”

When the Queen takes her hand and entwines their fingers together, the universe splinters apart, and Raelle’s destiny manifests in the curve of the Queen’s smile.

****

Raelle does a sweep of the Queen’s chambers, just like always. “All clear,” she says, before the Queen enters.

The Queen turns her back to Raelle, then says over her shoulder, “Unzip me.” Her voice is like liquid sapphires, like the gems in Raelle’s brooch that she still wears, after all these years.

Raelle feels dizzy, but she’s never disobeyed a command before. She’s not going to start now.

Her knuckles skim along the Queen’s spine with every notch undone, until it stops right at the small of her back. Her fingers itch to map out the skin she’s unraveled, but she clenches them instead. Half-moons dent right into her palms. She forces herself to take a step back. “I should go.” She clears her throat. “Good night, Your Grace.”

“I haven’t dismissed you yet,” the Queen says. “Will you leave me, just like that?”

Heat claws up Raelle’s throat. “I will never leave you.” Truth. Honesty. Her vows.

The Queen turns to her. Her dress falls on the floor, but Raelle is looking into her eyes. “Are you speaking as my sword and shield,” she begins, stepping out of the fabric and into Raelle’s space, “or as something else?”

Raelle thinks of dead stars forming constellations. How even through the dark of space light persists to shine on earth. How the Queen is sort of like that—rising from the deaths she has to endure because the nation needs her. “With you,” Raelle says, quiet but sincere, “I am always speaking as myself.”

The Queen smiles. She drapes her arms on Raelle’s shoulders. Raelle drowns in her scent, in flowers and tea and ink. “I suppose you do.” Her fingers play with Raelle’s hair. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” she immediately says. “I am yours to command, Your Grace.”

“Scylla,” the Queen corrects, and Raelle nearly stops breathing. “Say my name.”

Raelle tries to get the air back into her body, but it feels terribly difficult. The Queen waits, looking at her with soft eyes, and her hand is warm against Raelle’s nape. All Raelle can think about is the word— _the_ word. Thinks, _Maybe it is time_. Thinks, _I love you_. “Scylla,” she says instead, but she wraps it in everything that has been brewing in her chest since that day, years ago, when she swore to be the Queen’s.

To be _Scylla_ ’s.

Scylla grins, beautiful, pale, the Queen of the night and of Raelle’s heart, and Raelle will not look away.

****

Raelle presses her face into Scylla’s neck, delicate and soft. Her fingers skate down Scylla’s sides, exploring slowly until she reaches the juncture between her thighs. Scylla inhales sharply, and Raelle nips at her throat before pulling back, and her breath stutters for Scylla looks divine, with her dark hair spread out like ink on the pillows and her cheeks flushed rosy with desire.

Raelle loves her so fiercely she wants to break her heart out of her chest, say _Here, Your Grace, this is yours_. She doesn’t know how to do that and still be alive to serve her, to serve _Scylla_ , so she just pours it all instead into how she slides her fingers into her Queen, curls, and kisses her, licking deeply into her mouth.

Scylla arches into her, and Raelle thinks, _I have always loved you_. Thinks, _I am ready to face both life and death for you_.

Raelle notes down the way Scylla bends, the way she writhes, the way she quivers. She can survive just on that, and on the way Scylla breathes out her name, her slick coating Raelle’s fingers.

She leans forward, charts a wet course across Scylla’s chest with her mouth, and Scylla lets out this absolutely sinful sound that makes Raelle growl. A hand finds itself buried in Raelle’s hair whilst the other has a white-knuckled grip on the blanket as Raelle drags her teeth on every inch of skin she can reach. She slips down, pushing Scylla’s legs apart to devour what her fingers have explored. Her name on Scylla’s lips sounds both like a prayer and a commandment all at once.

 _This is my Queen_ , Raelle thinks, with the taste of Scylla’s come on her tongue and her moans blending exquisitely with the roar of Raelle’s blood.

Raelle will serve her in every second of everyday.

And she will love her in endless tomorrows.


	2. Of Crowns, Swords, and Vows (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the world thought Scylla’s royalty was measured in gold and in power and in blood.
> 
> But something about the way this girl looked at her made Scylla think that perhaps—  
> —perhaps she’s more than _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super random snippets from the queen’s pov

As far as history is concerned, Scylla took the throne when she was nine years old. Her coronation was held exactly 72 hours after she buried the previous monarch. Or, well, her _father_ , she supposes. And her mother too, who was with the king when the plane crashed. They had a joint burial, with their heiress the one who had to oversee the rites sending them to their final resting place. 

The history books would say that Queen Scylla started her reign when she was nine, with eyes far wiser than her age would suggest. They would be correct. It is _a_ truth, after all: she was nine when she became the Queen of Salem and obtained more power and authority than any child knew what to do with.

But the whole truth is far more encompassing, far more valuable than anything history had to say:

Scylla was nine when Raelle became hers.

The golden sun, bright and fiery, shining down her darkest days. Her Raelle, her soldier, her shelter, her protector, the sword and the shield who never failed her.

So the whole truth is this:

Scylla was nine when her world ended.

And she was nine when it began again.

****

She was the only one left of the royal family, the family blessed by the gods to rule in their stead. Their bloodline enforced the will of the heavens. Or so the myths said.

Scylla didn’t care.

It didn’t even matter.

She’s the only one _left_.

It’s stupid, really. And terribly ironic.

She gained a country but lost a family. Lost her own security and then was duty-bound to provide the very same thing to an entire nation, with citizens relying on her to make the right calls and be swift and decisive.

What a thing to ask of a nine year old, but there really was no choice, was there?

She inherited a kingdom. The price was her family, and whatever she had left to give. Her life. Her dreams. Her aspirations.

She remembers walking up the cold imposing throne, sitting upon it as the ruler her ancestors had always been, and taking the crown that would be her undoing, were she weak enough to let it.

She remembers the quick, blinding flashes of the cameras as journalists scrambled to get a shot of this young monarch, this new Queen who could command millions. Scylla made sure they won’t capture her sorrow, made sure to hide away her lamentations beneath a small smile and the hard gaze her father used to wield.

She remembers thinking:

_Power._

_Loneliness._

_Was it worth it? Was anything worth it?_

She did her best to stand tall, or as tall a child could be with the weight of the realm laid upon her shoulders. _Don’t show weakness_ , her father had told her, _for you are to be the people’s strength_. He handed her the sceptre to test its weight, and she nearly fell down.

He had laughed, then, and said, _Grow stronger, Scylla, for this is but a fraction of what you have to bear_. 

She finally found it in herself to listen to him now.

_Grow stronger._

_Be stronger._

And so Scylla persisted, step by painful step.

Each one felt like getting closer to the gallows.

****

It wasn’t until the palace had been cleared of its guests that she let herself crumble.

“Leave,” she said—no, _commanded_ , and the staff had no choice but to obey. As soon as she heard the door click shut, her knees buckled, and she looked upon the vacant throne, and it didn’t take long before the first sob broke free from her throat. She bit her lip in a bid to stop but the tears continued flowing, and it was as if something’s scratching at her lungs. She realised she’s shaking, the marble floor cold against her knees. Still that’s nothing against the ice she could feel growing right in her chest.

And then.

She didn’t know how much time she’d spent there, alone before her father’s throne— _her_ throne, when someone knelt next to her and _cried_.

It was disconcerting, seeing a girl whose eyes near reflected Scylla’s misery, as if she was taking a part of Scylla’s pain. 

“You’re my Queen,” the girl said with certainty. Scylla didn’t know why that simple statement soothed her.

For it was a fact, was it not?

She _was_ the Queen.

So why did that sound so much more significant, so much more meaningful, coming from this girl, this stranger with golden hair and eyes the colour of sunny summer skies?

****

The rest of the world thought Scylla’s royalty was measured in gold and in power and in blood.

But something about the way this girl looked at her made Scylla think that perhaps—

—perhaps she’s more than _that_.

More than her name.

More than her title.

More than her crown.

And when the girl wore her brooch, a certain kind of warmth filled up her empty bones, and for the first time since learning of her parents’ deaths, Scylla felt like maybe things would be all right.

****

The first time Raelle stood on the brink of death for Scylla, Scylla was prepared to follow her, consequences be damned.

Raelle—her sword and shield, her _light_ —lay pale on the bed. Scylla recalled with staggering clarity how blood dripped down her lips after biting that stupid scone. Crimson. Dark. A scream clawing up Scylla’s throat.

“I forbid her to leave me,” Scylla said, stubborn and broken and so immensely _terrified_.

“And she won’t, Your Grace. Not willingly,” Lady Izadora gently said, standing by her shoulder. “But this is the one thing you have no control over.”

That truth seared past Scylla’s ears. She reached out, held Raelle’s still hand. There’s no room for propriety here, and Scylla otherwise wouldn’t care, anyway.

“I forbid you to leave me,” she whispered, commanded, entreated.

****

Raelle woke up the next day.

****

The world thinks Raelle is Scylla’s devoted servant, her sword and shield, always ready to follow Her Grace. This is correct.

What the world doesn’t know is this:

Scylla will follow Raelle to the ends of the universe too. She is her sword and shield, and Scylla would rather abandon her throne a thousand times over than ever abandon _her_.

****

“Does it mean the same to you,” Scylla begins, “the way it means to me?” She’s straddling Raelle, Raelle’s hands hot against her hips. She’s sure Raelle can feel her slick, her never-sated want evident.

Raelle looks up at her with something soft and shattered. “What does it mean to you, Scylla?”

The use of her name makes her smile. She trails fingers across the distinct line of Raelle’s collarbone. Glides along the tendons of her neck. Feels the pulse there. Warm. Beating. Alive. _Hers._ “I’m asking the questions here, Raelle.”

“Well.” Raelle meets her gaze. “It means to me whatever you wills it to be.”

Scylla leans forward, pressing closer into Raelle’s warmth. “I want you to decide that for yourself,” she says.

“Scylla, I’m yours.” Raelle smiles her heartbreaking smile. So sincere, so committed, so ardent. “I will accept anything you willingly give.”

Scylla thinks she will burn and salt the earth itself if anyone dared take Raelle away from her. “Then I give you my heart,” she says.

Raelle’s hands slide up her shoulders and round her nape. “You already have mine.” Her voice is quiet but certain, and Scylla kisses her slow and deep.

A promise. A seal. A vow.

Scylla will kneel for one person and one person alone. The rest of the world could end up in flames for all she cares; the only one that matters is here.

 _Raelle_ , she thinks, as she comes alive with every kiss and every touch, _the one person I have loved and the one person I ever will._

****

Another truth:

Scylla is the Queen, and she has an entire nation by her feet. But all those lives combined mean nothing weighed against her heart, which beats solely for Raelle.

Scylla is the Queen.

But she will sell her crown to the devil if it meant she could be the Queen of Raelle’s heart instead.

****

If they were living in some medieval fantasy, Scylla would proclaim Raelle her knight. Sometimes she sees glimpses of it, even, of Raelle in glinting armour, glorious and magnificent atop a steed, just like in the myths her mother used to tell.

But enticing as that vision is, Scylla knows she won’t exchange anything for her reality.

Raelle is no knight but she is _Scylla_ ’s. The whole of Salem has known this since long before either of them did. She is Scylla’s and she is her sword and shield, her shelter, her protector. She is Scylla’s, and what Salem does not know is that she is Raelle’s too.

This is a truth Scylla doesn’t feel compelled to share. This is a truth Scylla doesn’t owe anyone, not even the gods themselves.

Raelle is hers and she is Raelle’s, and that is the truth that was and is and has always been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do i do this to myself

**Author's Note:**

> i thought i was done with royalty aus but i was uhhhhh wrong lmao happy pride month 2020 y’all 
> 
> come yell at me or with me on [tumblr](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/agentjoannemil1)!  
> feedback is much appreciated; feelings fuel everything! 
> 
> keep safe and hydrated, folks!


End file.
